


Daisies, simple and sweet

by zjofierose



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Arthurian, Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, First Kiss, First Time, Happy Ending, Innocence, Keith is the Prince of Faires, Krolia is the Queen of the Fairies, Lance speaks Asturian, Light Angst, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Shiro is a tin knight, Unbeta’d we die like meh, Virginity, a field of flowers makes an appearance, background allurance, because of course she is, daisies, damn straight i worked historical research into a 7k fluff fic, how’s that for your obscure language of the day, on brand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 05:37:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20077036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: Keith is the Prince of the Marmora; Shiro is a tin knight on a quest.For the prompt : Daisy - Innocence/ Gooseberry - Anticipation





	Daisies, simple and sweet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gwendy1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwendy1/gifts).

> Written for the Sheith Flower Exchange 2019! I hope you like it, Wendy!! (And I hope everyone else likes it, too!)

“We’ll camp here for the night,” Shiro says, pulling up his stallion and coming to a stop, his armor clanking at the change in momentum. He wipes the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, fishing out his waterskin and taking a long drink. The small copse in front of them is a welcome shelter after a long, hot day of riding through sun-baked fields and over dusty dales. 

“Here?” Hunk’s voice wavers nervously from behind, and Shiro suppresses a brief wave of irritation, focusing on using his teeth to replace the stopper in the mouth of the waterskin. “But… but that’s a fairy mound.” Hunk points a finger at the large, low hill that breaks the horizon in front of them, looming round and symmetrical against the darkening twilight of the midsummer sky. 

“It’s not,” Pidge answers acerbically from where she sits between them, “it’s a burial mound for the ancients.”

“You say that like it’s  _ better _ ,” Hunk grumbles, folding his arms, and Shiro has to hide a smile as he slides off his horse. “I don’t know which is worse, ghosts or the fair folk.”

“Shhh,” Lance hisses loudly, looking around them suspiciously, “don’t talk about them or they’ll know we’re here!” 

“Oh, come on,” Pidge rolls her eyes and joins Shiro on the ground, hobbling her small brown mare and pulling off her packs. “Shiro’s right, it’s the best campsite we’ve passed in hours. It’s closed enough we’re not likely to get a wild boar through it in the middle of the night, it’s got a nice stream just over there,” she points at the meandering brook several yards away, “and it’s flat so’s none of us will go rolling away in our sleep.” She knocks her saddlebags together to shake off the dust before tossing them to the ground near a tree. “Now stop whining and get a fire going, I’m hungry.” 

“But…,” Hunk’s tone is soft but urgent, even as he points again at the nearby hill. 

“We’ll leave out offerings for them,” Lance tells him sagely, swinging down from his horse. Even Lance, the dandy of the lot, is looking worse for wear, his blue tunic wet with sweat and dimmed with the dirt of the road. “It’s what my  _ abuelita _ back in Oviedo always did. You leave them some nice food, and then they don’t make any trouble. Easy.” He shrugs.

“There you go, Hunk,” Shiro says, nodding approvingly at Lance, “it’ll be fine. We’ll set out an offering, get some good rest here tonight, and in the morning we’ll continue on our quest.” He situates Black’s nosebag and leaves the horse contentedly munching as he rolls out his bedroll and removes his helm.

He’s the only true knight among them, ragtag bunch that they are, knighted by Lord Samuel Holt himself these five years past and sent out into the world to seek the lost realm of Kerberos. The first time he’d sought it had ended poorly, with Lord Holt’s son and Shiro’s foster brother, Matt, taken captive by the thrice-cursed Galra who hold the north. They’d escaped and returned home with their lives, but barely, and without half of Shiro’s arm. 

He’d lost a year to the depression and fear of being a lesser knight, a lesser man; an entire year given over to weakness, then another dedicated to rehabilitation and the stubborn determination to prove that he was still valuable, still able to prove himself and serve. When he’d set out the second time he’d found himself abandoned by the rest of the knights; the older, experienced men believed he was on a fool’s errand, felt sure that he could not possibly find the mythic realm. Only Lord Holt had believed in him, had supported him, and Shiro had left under his banner and with his blessing.

He’d left alone, but quickly found himself joined by the young Lady Katherine Holt, his foster sister, her hair shorn and dresses abandoned for breeches in search of adventure and glory. No one yet had been able to convince Katie Holt to do a thing she did not desire to do, and Shiro met the same success in attempting to turn her back. 

Not long after becoming a party of two, they’d passed through a town boasting a famous fighter, the Blue Knight, a supposedly renowned foreign warrior who had challenged Shiro to a duel in exchange for the Lady Katherine’s hand. Shiro had declined, but Pidge had accepted, and had defeated the Blue Knight handily, at which point he’d sworn her his fealty. Thus, Lance had joined their party, bringing his best friend and sometimes squire, Hunk, with him. 

And so they were four, and in spite of the hassle, in spite of the squabbling and superstitions, Shiro finds, as he regards them laughing and bickering and carrying on in the late-evening sunlight, that he cannot regret their presence.

“There,” Hunk says with satisfaction, spitting a brace of rabbits and setting them over the now cheerfully crackling fire. “I’ve had enough hardtack the past few days; tonight, we dine.” 

“Here,” Pidge hands him a clutch of greens and roots foraged from the stream banks, “give me the pot and I’ll get some water for these.”

Shiro watches them as they go through the practiced dance, Pidge and Hunk working easily to prepare their meal while Lance feeds all their horses and lays some snares in the hopes of catching provisions for the days ahead. They’ve traveled together some months now, criss-crossing the countryside as they chase rumors of the lost land, and they’ve achieved a comfort Shiro never thought they’d gain when they’d first come together. He smiles as he cleans his breastplate and greaves, setting them aside to circle their small camp, laying twigs and bracken at the approaches to their clearing to warn them of anyone or anything that may approach in the night. 

It’s not an easy quest; it’s not an easy life. But there’s an ease to them now for which he is grateful.

—

Shiro wakes in the night to a low thrumming that he can feel in his bones, sitting up in his bedroll and rubbing sleep from his eyes as he blinks into the dark. Music, he thinks, coming more fully awake as he cocks his head to listen to the faint melody carrying on the night air. It’s only just gone full dark, though it must be midnight - they’re far enough north that the longest day pushes up against the edges of night, rubbing them away until even the deepest of the dark hours is tinged with lavender dimness at the edges, the stars overhead flickering in a translucent sky. The full moon further illuminates the countryside around them, bathing the fields in a cool, eerie light and gilding the burbling waters of the stream with silver.

The music is growing louder, Shiro thinks, and he can hear the sounds of the other paladins rustling restlessly around him even as he rises from his blankets. The melody is compelling, reminding him of something he already knows, something distant, dreamlike in the back of his mind as it tugs at the fringes of his consciousness. He sleeps in his boots always, but he bends to buckle them without knowing why, pulling his embroidered tunic on over his undershirt even as he sees Pidge sit up across the circle. 

“Shiro, what,” she starts, the dim light of the glowing goals reflecting off her round face, but he’s already moving to the center of their circle, compelled by a force he can’t name. 

“The Unseelie Court,” he hears Lance hiss from beside him, “look!” 

Shiro follows the line of Lance’s arm to its conclusion, aimed like an arrow at the top of the nearby hill. Light flickers around the darkened shape of it, a steady trail of gently bobbing lights that wends its way across the shadowed mound until they form a glittering circle at the top. 

“ _ Ave Maria, gratia plena _ ,” Hunk mumbles, but Pidge is up out of her bed as well, shrugging her small shoulders into her cloak. “Pidge, where are you going?”

“Can’t you feel it?” She asks, and Shiro can hear in her voice the same hazy compulsion that seems to have overtaken him. “They want us to come. The music, it’s…” she gestures vaguely, stepping forward to take Shiro’s hand. 

Lance sighs loudly, throwing off his blankets and shoving his feet into his boots. “Come on, Hunk,” he says, “we can’t let them go alone.”

“Shouldn’t someone stay here to guard the camp?” Hunk asks, voice faint, “you know, in case anyone… anything decides to come a’theiving?”

“ _ Hunk _ ,” Lance says firmly, and Hunk sighs in turn. Shiro hears rustling as Hunk dresses quickly, but it’s not until Lance picks up his sword that he hears a new voice next to him.

“No weapons,” the voice says, soft like steel in a silk scabbard, and Lance shrieks in surprise.

“No,” Shiro agrees distantly, “no weapons. Lance, leave your sword.”

“But,” Lance sputters, “what if they mean to do us harm?”

“No harm will come to you,” the voice answers calmly, and a figure steps into the faint light. It seems to be a man at first glance, tall and comely, but upon closer inspection the illusion falls away at the long, pointed ears, at the golden, cat-slit eyes. “It is the turning point of the year, the feast day of our queen, and we are honor-bound to provide safe passage for all comers to our celebrations.”

“No harm will come to us,” Shiro echoes, somehow more sure of this simple fact than of his own name, “come, paladins. We do not want to keep our hosts waiting.” 

“I don’t like this,” Shiro can hear Lance mutter, but he drops the sword and steps forward, thrusting his chest out. “Alright, then. No harm shall come to us indeed, for we are sent on a quest by command of God himself; our faith protects us, and our God and all his saints shall preserve us from any evil.”

“Oh yes,” the figure says, quirking its lips in amusement, “no doubt this is true.” He turns, striding off swiftly into the rippling dark, “come. We have not a moment to waste!”

Shiro follows without hesitation, Pidge’s small hand firm in his larger grasp, Hunk and Lance stumbling clumsily through the brush behind them. The mound looms before them, black against the midnight blue of the solstice sky, patiently silent and waiting.

—

It takes longer than Shiro anticipates to crest the hill, but they make it, breathing hard after their swift ascent. The view from the top is incredible, all of the countryside laid out around them like skirts around a woman’s hips, rippling and rolling into the far distance. He’d like to take a moment to appreciate the view, but their guide hustles them forward, drawing them into the circle of glowing lights they could see from the bottom. 

Up here Shiro can see that the lights themselves encircle a ring of stones, ancient behemoths that stand several times taller than Shiro himself, sunken into the top of the mound by whomever built the immense structure in the first place. The stones in their turn enclose an undulating crowd of bodies, a writhing mass of color and motion, each individual more beautiful and strange than the last. The music here is overpowering, the sounds of the drums echoing into Shiro’s chest and making his heart beat in time with their pulsating rhythm while the melody of the pipes and voices winds through his head and drowns out all other thought. 

He’s lost hold of Pidge somewhere during the ascent, but he can feel the presence of the other three around him as their guide motions them to a stop, a look of relief on his face. 

“We’re in time,” he says, and Shiro’s not sure how he can hear the sound of a single voice over the cacophony which surrounds them, but it’s clear as a bell nonetheless.  _ In time for what _ , Shiro has just long enough to wonder, and then the gathering falls silent as one, the echo of the music fading out into the night air as every member of the gathering turns expectantly to watch a sudden empty space in front of the largest of the stones. 

She appears in a cloud of glimmering mist that glints with purple and silver lights, but when the haze clears, Shiro feels certain he’s staring directly at the queen of the fairies. This assumption is confirmed as the entire assembly bows at her appearance in a wave of honor and reverence, a hushed rustle of cloth and wing making a gentle susurrus throughout the assembled body. Shiro drops to one knee without a thought, the others only a beat behind him, and he can feel her glance linger delicately on them for a heartbeat before sweeping across to the rest of the gathered crowd. 

The queen spreads her hands, and Shiro notices with only faint surprise that her skin is a lovely deep purple, the hair so elegantly arranged on top of her head and trailing down her neck a deeper shade of the same wine-dark violet. She glistens with jewels and the magic drips off her, but beneath the glamour of her form he can see the honed muscles and deliberate motions of a warrior. 

“Welcome,” she says to her audience, a smile gracing her lovely features, “merry meet on this, the feast of the shortest night!” 

A roar goes up from the crowd at her words, and suddenly the air is filled with the scents of a hundred different foods, baskets of cakes and breads, trenchers of meats and cheeses, jugs and goblets of wine appearing throughout the stone ring as the audience cheers. 

She holds up her hands again, and the crowd falls abruptly and obediently quiet, the food untouched as they await their sovereign's command.

“It is truly an auspicious night,” she tells them, and suddenly he can see the diadem that crowns her noble head as though it has flickered into existence for the purpose of reminding them who she is. “And we welcome our guests who have joined us to celebrate.” She gestures to where they stand, and the crowd turns to regard them as one, making the hair on Shiro’s neck rise. He believes their guide that they will not be harmed, though he could hardly say why, but he also knows without a doubt that, should they wish to, any one member of those assembled here could end the paladins with a word, leaving them to muddle their way through the fields lost and mad for the rest of their lives. The magic is thick here, wrapping its tendrils around them, and the deepest parts of Shiro’s brain know and acknowledge it, even as enamored as he is of everything in front of him. 

“Tonight,” the queen continues, and the assembly turns its attention back to her, “is the night that my children take their place among you as full-grown leaders in their own right.” She gestures, and suddenly two figures emerge from the darkness on either side of the largest stone. “The daughter of my heart, Allura,” the queen says, gesturing regally to her left. As they watch, a beautiful woman with lavender eyes and skin the color of hickory, hair pale as the moon and glimmering with stars steps, forward to take her place at her mother’s side. 

The crowd shouts their approval, the drums crescendoing as Allura throws back her head and laughs with a sound like bells, welcoming the cheers and applause as her due. Shiro hears Lance gasp beside him, his voice faintly murmuring in his native tongue as the moonlight bathes the princess in its loving beams.

“And,” the queen intones, the crowd falling silent as she gestures to the figure to her right, “the son of my blood, Keith.” The gathered folk cheer again, and Shiro feels his heart stutter to a standstill in his chest. Where the princess is moonlight on a darkened moor, the prince is nightfall on a sunlit sea, his black hair and violet eyes striking against his milk-pale skin. He is, without question, the most beautiful man Shiro has ever seen in his entire life, and he can’t  _ breathe _ with the utter certainty that he has been brought here, to this moment, to this very heartbeat of his entire life, for this.

—

Shiro comes to his senses in time to wrest his gaze from the prince and watch as the queen gives her final pronouncement.

“Tonight,” she intones, hands held high in benediction over her childrens’ heads, “is the night when they leave behind the protection and innocence of their youth and step into their majority. It is a magical night, and one which we shall never see again!” The queen rests a hand on each of their shoulders, and they smile at each other, taking hands in front of her. “Take them among you; see to their needs. Make them welcome and honored. Feast and toast and enjoy this night, for morning dawns all too soon!”

Shiro’s moving before he’s consciously aware of it, drawn to the prince as though an ever-shortening thread pulls between them. He weaves carefully between revelers, snagging a plate of fruit and a chalice of wine as he goes. He can hear Lance behind him, babbling furiously to Pidge about  _ la bella princesa _ , but Shiro pays him no mind, his entire being focused on the beautiful dark-haired man across the crowd from him.

As if summoned by Shiro’s thoughts, the man in question turns his gaze toward him, and Shiro feels it like a sword to the gut when their eyes meet. It can’t be imaginary, the magic he feels snap into place between them like a lightning strike, because the prince’s eyes widen into tempests, his shapely mouth opening in surprise. He turns, his hand falling heedlessly from the grasp of whatever beautiful creature had been plying him with gifts and compliments, and takes a step toward Shiro.

The rest of the crossing is a blur, but suddenly there he is in the middle of the jostling, shouting crowd. The drums are beating insistently on all sides, but all Shiro can hear is the pounding of his own heart as he carefully takes the prince’s hand in his own and bows his head to kiss it.

“My prince,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the alien smoothness of the prince’s delicate skin, “it is my greatest pleasure.”

Strong fingers grip his chin and raise his face, night-colored eyes searching his own. “The pleasure is all mine,” the prince tells him, and his voice is a lilting rasp that doesn’t at all match the pristine sharpness of his features. Shiro’s heart hiccups in his chest, unable to find its rhythm in the face of such scrutiny. “But not  _ your _ prince, I think,” he says, tipping Shiro’s head this way and that, “because you are not one of us, no?”

Shiro can’t find it within himself to look away from the smile that graces the prince’s face. “No, my lord,” he says, “I am Shirogane Takashi, the White Knight of the Garrison, Paladin of the Black.”

“His Highness Yorak Kogane, Red Right Hand of the Marmora,” the prince says, “but I prefer ‘Keith’. And you?” Shiro blinks in confusion, and the prince traces the scar across his nose with a feather-light touch. “Your name is as much of a mouthful as mine. Surely your friends do not call you such.”

“_Shiro_,” he breathes without second thought, and watches, rapt, as a smile blooms again across the prince’s beautiful face. “Please call me Shiro.”

“Shiro,” the prince murmurs, rubbing his thumb down the line of Shiro’s jaw. The sensation of liquid pouring over his fingers brings Shiro back to himself, and he can feel himself flushing red as he rights the forgotten goblet in his hand. 

“Keith,” he says, delighting in the way Keith’s face glows at the sound of his name on Shiro’s lips, “may I offer you repast?” He holds out the goblet, the finely wrought gold scattered with precious gems. It’s easily the most expensive thing Shiro’s ever held in his hand, but he can’t spare it a second look when he’s got Keith beside him. He raises the goblet to his own lips without thinking, licking carefully to remove the remnants of where the wine had spilled over the side.

Keith’s eyes grow impossibly darker, and he tips his head, dark hair sliding across his forehead and exposing the elegant curl of one pointed ear. Shiro wants to trace it with his tongue. 

“Please,” Keith says, and wraps his hand over Shiro’s on the goblet, turning it so that the rim of the goblet that bears the touch of Shiro’s mouth is toward him. He raises it to his lips, settling his mouth carefully against the spot which Shiro’s had touched, never dropping his eyes, and takes a long drink. “Delicious,” he says, wiping his mouth with his thumb to catch a stray droplet. “Would you like a taste?”

“Please,” Shiro says, his voice breathless and high in his ears, and then Keith is pressing his wet thumb to Shiro’s lips, and Shiro is opening on instinct to suck the remaining moisture from the soft pad that sits above the joint, the taste of gooseberries bursting across his tongue with an aftertaste of cinnamon and flame. 

“By all the gods, old and new,” he whispers, and a look very much like mischief blossoms onto Keith’s face. 

“Oh, lovely one,” he says, “the gods have nothing to do with this.” Keith raises his hand and gestures sharp and hard, and the world around them falls away.

—

When his head has stopped spinning, Shiro looks around them, realizing belatedly that they’ve moved from standing to reclining, recumbent upon the warm earth. Somehow also in the momentary transition his arm has come hard around Keith’s shoulders, holding him protectively close, and Shiro finds himself reluctant to let go.

“Where are we?” He asks, his gaze falling on the standing stones that surround them. They’re the same stones as the ones that watched over them merely seconds ago, but now they stand sentry over a field of flowers, white heads bobbing faintly in a gentle breeze.

“Between,” Keith shrugs. “We are there, but also we are here. It’s what I do when I want to be alone.” He glances up at Shiro from under lowered lashes. “Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful,” Shiro tells him, gazing at the faintly purple sky and the nodding heads of the marguerites, then turns his gaze back to the man in front of him. “But not as beautiful as you.”

The blush holds a lavender tinge on Keith’s cheeks, but Shiro’s sure it’s still the same effect, and he reaches boldly up to touch it, regardless of rank or race or any notion of propriety.

“What does it mean, what your mother said?” Shiro asks, unable to stop himself from trailing a finger down the impossible curve of Keith’s alabaster cheek. 

Keith leans into the touch, his skin cool and inhumanly smooth. “Which part?”

Shiro bites his lip. “That you leave behind the protection and innocence of your childhood?”

“Oh,” Keith laughs, and Shiro thinks idly that he’s never heard a more beautiful sound in his life. “It’s ritualistic, mostly. It’s a rite of passage - it means that rather than being the queen’s children, and thus exempt from the roles and rigors of the court, we take our places as her adult subjects.” He rubs his face against the warmth of Shiro’s hand, letting his eyes drift closed briefly before continuing. “We have been raised to know all that she knows, and do all that she does, but always as her shadows. Now we must perform our duties as members of the Court of Marmora, and help her to lead our kind.”

Keith’s dark eyes are mesmerizing, glimmering like the depths of a well, like the darkest of winter nights and just as streaked with stars. Shiro picks a flower, breaking the crisp stem with his fingers and reaching up to tuck it behind Keith’s lightly pointed ear. He settles the flower into place, bright white petals against ink-black hair, and brushes a lock of the heavy, dark strands out of Keith’s face. The texture of it is like spider silk, light but slightly sticky against Shiro’s touch as he moves it to the side. 

“And the innocence?”

Keith catches Shiro’s gaze, the corners of his lips quirking up in a gentle smile as he reaches out to capture Shiro’s hand where it hovers against his cheek. He turns his face, closing his eyes and placing the lightest of kisses against Shiro’s weathered palm. 

“We are creatures of pleasure,” Keith murmurs, eyes still closed as he nuzzles the skin at the base of Shiro’s finger, tongue flicking out to sample the texture of the hard-won sword calluses that decorate the skin of Shiro’s hand. “It is time that I found mine.”

Shiro’s breath catches in his throat even as his heart pounds in his chest like Black chasing the open sky. “I,” he starts shakily, beginning to pull his hand back from where it lingers on Keith’s skin, heart breaking as Keith’s face goes soft and sad at the loss of his touch. “I know nothing of such pleasures,” Shiro admits, and continues as Keith frowns in confusion, “I’m chaste.”

“Chaste?” Keith asks, expression curious even as his foot winds its way between Shiro’s legs where they lie side by side. “What does this mean?”

“It means I’ve never known the caress of a woman,” Shiro says, feeling the blush rising in his face. 

“You prefer men?” Keith asks, smiling, his hands clever at the ties of Shiro’s tunic, “that seems like the opposite of a problem.”

“No,” Shiro says, catching Keith’s hand in his own. He means to push it away, but brings it to his lips instead, covering Keith’s fingers with kisses, letting Keith slide a finger into his mouth for Shiro to suck. He feels his cock harden in his breeches as Keith moans in delight at the sensation, and shakes his head to clear it as he pulls his mouth away. “No, I’ve never known the touch... of anyone.” Shiro forces his voice to be steady as he continues, “I pledged myself as a youth to chastity until the day I could renounce that pledge and replace it with the vows that would bind me instead to the one worthy of my total love, respect, and devotion.”

Keith smiles, pushing Shiro’s shoulder until he rolls to his back, Keith coming to lean over him. 

“Am I not that one?” Keith asks, and Shiro can see the flickering of the glamour around him, can feel the roll of power in his words. “Am I not worthy of your complete love? Your utmost respect?” He brings his mouth to Shiro’s ear. “Am I not the one to whom you are fated to render your total devotion?”

Shiro shudders beneath the weight of Keith’s body, lithe and supple against his own. “I would,” he whispers, giving in and drawing Keith close, reveling in the feel of Keith’s hands as they weave into his hair and tip his head so their eyes meet. “I would vow  _ everything _ to you, if you ask it of me. But I cannot give you what you want- what you need.” Shiro closes his eyes, fighting back the overwhelming wave of sadness at the thought of this exquisite creature finding solace, finding joy in someone else’s arms.

“Why?” Keith’s hand is hard in his hair, his fingers frantic at the laces of Shiro’s shirt, “why can’t you give me what I want?”

Shiro breathes out hard, wrapping his hand around Keith’s to still them. “Because I do not know  _ how _ . If what you need is to experience pleasure, I…” he trails off, at a loss. “I don’t know how to give you that,” he whispers, his heart barren in his chest.

“Oh,” Keith says, his night-dark eyes sparkling as he laughs, “is that all?” He leans forward, and the air shimmers around them, making Shiro’s head spin. “What if we discover it together?” He asks, and Shiro barely has time to catch his breath before Keith bends to press his mouth to Shiro’s, smooth and soft and tasting faintly of the gooseberry wine.

The touch of Keith’s mouth on his sparks something in Shiro’s belly that he’s never let himself feel as more than a fleeting impulse, acknowledged and then ruthlessly suppressed, but here, now, he lets it take root. The heat grows within him, and he’s surging forward before he can restrain himself, pressing their lips together, chasing the sound of Keith’s laughter into his mouth as Keith opens beneath him like a flower to the sun. Keith falls backward with a delighted gasp and Shiro presses his advantage, covering Keith with his bulk and kissing him like he’s always imagined, like he’s always  _ hoped _ , he’d someday kiss someone. 

It’s so foreign, the slide of their tongues together, warm and slick and deeply strange but right as the stars that wheel above them. Shiro tries to keep breathing as Keith gets his hands under Shiro’s tunic and pulls at it, tangling them both in its sleeves as he struggles to get it off. The fabric finally gives way and Shiro has a moment of trepidation as Keith’s gaze wanders over his scarred form, the stump of his missing arm, but then Keith is running reverent hands over him from the crown of his head to the hollow of his throat, from the trail of hair that traces his sternum to the waist of his tightening breeches. 

“I had no idea humans could be so beautiful,” Keith marvels, touching him like he’s something rare and precious, and Shiro can’t help but kiss him again and again, overwhelmed by the thought that a creature like the one he holds in his arms could find him beautiful, could consider him worth loving. 

“My prince,” Shiro vows as he pulls back, “I’ll give you  _ everything _ ,” He fumbles at the ties of Keith’s heavily embroidered robe with his hand until it falls open, revealing a smooth chest with small, darkly tanned nipples. Shiro takes one in his mouth and Keith arches, groaning beneath him and grabbing at Shiro’s back as Shiro tongues at it gently. 

“Shiro,” Keith moans, “I… I need…”

“What do you need,  _ marguerite _ ?” Shiro whispers, sitting back so he can push the robe from Keith’s arms, baring him to the warm night breeze. He’s even more comely than Shiro could ever have imagined, long and lean but firmly muscled, deadly strength masquerading in a delicate form. Shiro runs a hand down Keith’s side to his flank, tracing the shape of him under his hands, watching as Keith responds to his touch, his head falling back and his cock jumping where it hangs heavy between his elegantly made legs.

“I don’t know,” Keith whines, “I need you. I need to touch you.” He reaches up and pulls hard, forcing Shiro to swing a leg over and straddle his waist or risk landing a knee on Keith’s unprotected stomach as he overbalances. They groan in unison as the motion instead brings Keith’s hardness in contact with the round heft of Shiro’s ass, but it’s Keith grabbing at him through his breeches that punches the air right out of Shiro, Keith’s touch firm and demanding on his over-sensitized flesh.

“ _ Kyrie eleison _ ,” Shiro mutters, and Keith just laughs, his hand smaller than Shiro’s but just as dexterous. Shiro knows the swooping feeling in his gut means nothing is going to last long, and he reaches to push Keith’s hand away. Keith won’t let him, instead leaning up to wrap his free arm around Shiro’s shoulder and kiss him hard as Shiro shudders through his release.

“God’s bones,” Shiro swears as he shakes through the aftershocks, Keith’s hand still firmly in place, breathing into Keith’s mouth until he feels able to think again. 

“Was it good?” Keith asks him, and there’s a devastatingly endearing mix of curiousity and uncertainty in his tone that makes Shiro press him gently back down to the ground and push their mouths together, hoping to convey without words how wonderful the touch of Keith’s hands to his unlearned flesh had been.

“Please,” Shiro whispers finally, “let me make you happy.”

“Yes,” Keith whispers, tipping his head back as Shiro parts his robe fully, revealing every inch of whipcord frame beneath the elaborate decoration. Shiro takes a moment just to admire him, his dark hair curling among the white flowers, skin faintly glowing in the hazy starlight, then bends his head to take Keith in his mouth.

Shiro’s never done this before, but he’s overheard enough of the boasts of men and boys on both ends of this act to have at least a basic understanding of what he’s meant to be doing. 

Keith’s skin is slippery on his tongue, smoother and slicker than human, but just as warm. Shiro forces his eyes back open as he runs his lips from bottom to top, tries to take in the sight of Keith writhing, his hands fisted around trembling flower stems. Shiro sinks his mouth back down again, reveling in the feel of Keith’s flesh against his tongue, stroking his hands up Keith’s lean and muscular thighs to anchor himself in the moment. He barely makes it to three slow pulls of his mouth before Keith’s body is arching under him like a well-plucked harp and his mouth is filled with Keith’s spend. 

It’s not like his own, Shiro thinks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and pressing kisses across Keith’s heaving belly. Keith tastes like rain and lightning, and Shiro can’t help but want more. He crawls his way up Keith’s body to his shoulders and buries his face in the curve of Keith’s collar bone. Keith’s hand drags into his hair, winding tight into the strands and holding him in place as their heartbeats slow from their breakneck gallop, a beautiful stillness pervading the magical space around them.

“Shiro,” Keith whispers, curling his arms protectively around Shiro’s exhausted bulk, “stay with me.”

Shiro doesn’t have to speak - he just nods and tightens his grip.

—

Shiro wakes with the first fingers of dawn, coming to himself slowly, the memories of the previous night only flooding back as he goes to move his arm and finds it pinned by Keith’s sleeping weight. Keith’s impossibly lovely in the pale light, his dark eyes closed and his face relaxed in sleep. He frowns sharply and clutches as Shiro attempts to free himself, curling in on himself when Shiro tries to pull away.

“Shiro?” Keith asks sleepily, blinking his huge violet eyes, “what are you doing?”

Shiro bends to press a kiss to Keith’s forehead, then to his nose, then his mouth. Keith responds sweetly, his fingers reaching to capture Shiro and drag him down again.

“It’s morning, my prince,” Shiro tells him softly, “and we must both return to our lives.” The thought of it settles an iron weight in his chest; he’s only known Keith for a handful of hours, but already the idea of a life without him seems distant, an austere and inescapable pain. 

Keith sits up, arranging his robe, his hair a disheveled mess strewn with flowers. “What do you mean?” He asks, taking Shiro’s hand and standing, “did you not vow yourself to me last night?” His eyes are deep and solemn, and, Shiro thinks, more than a little hurt. “Are promises so little to your kind? I thought surely at least a knight as noble and true as you would hold a vow as something important.”

“I do,” Shiro chokes out, cupping his hand around Keith’s face, “my prince, I  _ do _ , but I am also vowed to lead the paladins to the lost land of Kerberos. I do not see how I can fulfill both.”

“Why not?” Keith asks softly, and Shiro leans down to press their foreheads together, closing his eyes against the wounded disappointment on Keith’s face.

“Because I cannot be in two places at once. If I stay here with you, I cannot lead the paladins to Kerberos. If I leave here, I cannot be with you.”

“Would you not allow me to come with you?” Keith’s voice is small and uncertain, and Shiro wraps his arms around him.

“Of course,” he breathes, “of  _ course _ you could come with me, but… you’re a prince of Marmora, can you live in the mortal realm?”

Keith laughs, tipping his head back, and Shiro smiles through his confusion. 

“Shiro,” Keith says, throwing his arms around Shiro’s neck. “My father was a mortal, and my sister and mother can more than handle the Marmora without me.” He grins, breathless. “Let me come with you?”

Shiro kisses him soundly, burying his hand in Keith’s hair to feel its softness, reveling in the thought that this is not the end of his time with this beautiful man whom he so desperately wants to get to know. 

“It would be my honor.”

—-

“So, what do you think of being a human, Keith?” Pidge asks a week later as they camp by the side of the road. Keith is chewing on a biscuit, and takes the wedge of sharp cheese that Hunk passes him with a nod of gratitude.

“I think our food is better,” he mumbles through his mouthful, and Hunk sputters in outrage as Pidge laughs and laughs. 

“Lance would never betray me like this,” Hunk states, folding his arms and glaring around in mock anger. 

“Too bad he stayed behind to warm my sister’s bed, then,” Keith shrugs, and Pidge gives the most unladylike of guffaws. 

“You think he’s happy there?” Hunk asks wistfully, ripping apart his own biscuit and spreading it with warmed butter. “I do miss him.”

“Did you  _ see _ Princess Allura?” Pidge scoffs, “he’s happy there.”

“It’s alright, Hunk,” Keith tells him, reaching over to pat his ample knee. “There was that one girl a couple villages back, the blacksmith’s daughter, what was her name?”

Hunk’s cheeks color. “Shay,” he mumbles, and busies himself with the stew that’s brewing over the fire as Shiro sits down next to Keith and wraps an arm around him. Keith goes willingly against Shiro’s side, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

“Shay,” Shiro says thoughtfully. “She was awfully nice. And such a hand with the forge. You know,” he muses, “I didn’t have a chance to have her sharpen my daggers… maybe we’d better make a second visit.”

“Wouldn’t want to go into Kerberos with dulled daggers,” Keith agrees.

“No,” Shiro hums, “what do you think, Hunk? Should we pay Mistress Shay another visit before we continue on our quest?”

“Well,” Hunk says casually, “she did have a rather nice carving knife I was admiring…”

“ _ You _ have a rather nice carving knife,” Shiro mutters into Keith’s ear, prompting an undignified snort and an elbow to his ribs. He grins, clutches at his side, and falls over in dramatic defeat. “Ah,” he cries, “cruelly slain by the prince of the faeries! Only true love’s kiss can save me!”

“By all the gods,” he hears Pidge mutter, “may I never be so ridiculous in love.” He can’t be bothered to catch Hunk’s pained reply, too busy returning the deep and thorough kiss Keith presses to his mouth.

“You saved me,” he grins, when Keith pulls back. Keith leans forward to trace the scar across his nose. 

“If what it takes is a kiss,” Keith says, eyes gleaming, “I’ll do it again and again and agai…”

Shiro shuts him up.

—

**Author's Note:**

> Just for clarity’s sake, the paladins (and Shiro) are lightly enchanted in order to get them to the party; however, Shiro is as fully consenting to *cough* deflowering Keith as anyone who’s had a glass of wine would be. He’s not under enchantment at that point, or at least none other than true love’s dart.


End file.
